


Hoarse

by yeaka



Series: Eye of a Prize [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Cousin Incest, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 22:14:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7332802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maedhros is finally complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hoarse

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is set in the same ‘unwanted!omega-refuge!Imladris’ setting as An Echinops Abacus, but it’s in no way necessary to read that for this. Pairing voted by edgeoflight and vanillapin [here.](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/146581537895/tolkien-abo)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, or The Silmarillion or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He sits with Maglor in the open sun and talks of inconsequential things—the guard, their ‘friends,’ what inane scheme Maeglin’s devising now—and never what Maedhros really wonders. Maglor’s songs are shorter of late, his nerves a tad frazzled, and a bead of sweat shines along his collarbone that the warm air could’ve never coaxed out before—is his heat coming? Who will take him? 

For a moment, Maedhros has a sickening thought: _what if he were to._ Maglor is his brother and not who he wants, but in certain lights, when one catches just a glimpse of his black hair or strong shoulders or the olden burn of his eyes, Maglor almost looks like that one other that Maedhros really _wants_.

Maglor, for all his equal sins, is loved by all. Someone will comfort him. They won’t bond, never do—the sons of Fëanor don’t need to burden others with the weight of all their troubles. Maedhros has yet to face those problems. His heats never come. He wonders, on occasion, if Morgoth burned them out of him, or the wrath of the silmaril he fell with wiped clean his chance of companionship. It’s for the best. He’s seen hundreds come and go, and he hasn’t wanted a one of them.

Aloud, he says, “I do not think so, not this time.”

“They will miss you,” Maglor muses, plucking at a single strand in the middle of his harp. “Elladan has confided in me, albeit some time ago, that he would enjoy the promise of you by his side.”

“He is mistaken.”

Maglor lifts his gaze to meet Maedhros’ but doesn’t say what he’s often suggested in the past: Maedhros would do well to move on. Maedhros disagrees. And Elladan, besides, is far too young for him. Maglor tries instead, “He thinks you are very handsome.”

“He sees battle wounds as honour instead of ugliness, and even that is a lie—I have no honour left.” Although it is nice that someone, it seems, is not put off by his shorn hair and severed ear and the mass of facials scars. He teases, “Although, if I were to take him and you Elrohir, we might have ourselves a nice little lordship again.”

Maglor grins, obviously knowing he’s joking, and tsks, “Poor Maeglin would rot of jealousy.”

He would indeed. Maedhros means to prolong the jest, but then he catches a glint in Maglor’s eye, directed over Maedhros’ shoulder, and he turns to look. Elrond is approaching, and for that, Maedhros drops the mention of his sons.

Elrond comes right to them, inclines his head in greeting, and to Maedhros, says, “You have a visitor waiting for you in my study.” Elrond’s face gives nothing more away, calm and kind as it always is. Maedhros can’t help a frown.

Despite his failings, his looks and his sins, he’s had a number of alphas come for him, always on the word of his father’s name. They all fall away when they see what he’s really like, and Maedhros allows this, never wanting them anyway. They look at the stub of his wrist where his sword-hand used to be and assume he’s no longer of any skill, and he doesn’t correct them. He imagines this will be similar and tells Maglor, “I will return shortly.”

“It is of no trouble if you do not,” Maglor returns, bending back over his harp. 

Maedhros rises and waits for Elrond to lead him off, but Elrond says, “I trust you know the way. I also have matters to discuss with Maglor, so I would stay here.” Maedhros’ mouth tightens, but he nods. Sometimes it’s good to have a chaperone—makes it easier to get out of there if he must. But he can handle it alone.

Maglor and Elrond speak softly as Maedhros leaves, doubtless discussing ways to ease Maglor’s coming heat. Maedhros isn’t sure whether to go slow and delay the meeting or to go quickly and get it over with. He winds up with an awkward in-between pace, passing the occasional peer, most of which barely look at him. It’s partially unusual that his visitor doesn’t simply wait in the lobby, and the use of Elrond’s private study indicates that it’s either a friend or a lord. Maedhros loves Elrond dearly, but he never shares the hope that _this time_ will be the one.

He lets himself into Elrond’s study, shuts the door behind himself, and steps in to find a figure at the window.

There, he forgets himself, mouth falling open and steps wavering in shock. He _stares_ at the tall figure before him, gazing out across the mountains. When that elf turns, Maedhros is sure he’s slipped into a dream. 

Fingon looks the same as he did the day Maedhros lost him. He wears no armour now—soft, blue-silver robes in the style of his father, a golden ribbon interwoven in his jet-black hair, and it brings a wave of memories: all the times that Maedhros tied that ribbon in himself. Fingon’s handsome face takes all of Maedhros in with a single breath, eyes softening and lips curling into a smile, a small one, an almost sad one, and Maedhros understands. He can hardly believe this is happening. He never forgot what Fingon looked like. It’s been years, _ages_ , but Maedhros has pictured him every day. Maedhros remembers the shape of him, the colours, the earthy scent and the imperceptible pattern of his breath. Maedhros doesn’t know what to say.

So he says nothing and flies across the room. It isn’t a conscious movement—one minute he’s by the door, and the next, he’s enveloping his cousin in his arms, squeezing tight, harder than he would dare to any lesser warrior, burying his face in Fingon’s silken hair and breathing it all in. His fist tightens in the dark locks, his heart nearly stopping—he tries to press everything he is into Fingon’s being and knows instantly that this is no trick, this is really, truly _his Fingon_.

Fingon holds him back, lighter and sweet, but _strong_ nonetheless. Maedhros has missed that strength, knew no one else could ever match it. He doesn’t want to let go.

But Fingon ends the embrace, gently detangling with hands slipping to Maedhros’ shoulders, Maedhros’ withdrawing to Fingon’s hips. He refuses to let go completely. Fingon looks like he means to say something, but instead lifts up on his toes to press a hard, lingering kiss into Maedhros’ forehead that has Maedhros’ heart imploding in his chest. 

He’d remembered Fingon as a great warrior and had forgotten that, in fact, he himself is slightly taller. Fingon is a little broader, but only by a hair. They’re the perfect fit, always were. When Fingon has fallen back to his feet, he asks, “Why did you never return to Valinor?”

Maedhros needs a minute just to savour the sound of Fingon’s voice. He’s only since heard it in his dreams. Then he chokes and admits, the rush of his wrongs coming back to him, “I have... I have done so much evil since we parted...”

“I heard,” Fingon says, tone grave but clear of judgment. Maedhros disappointed him once before and earned forgiveness.

In an attempt at a joke to try and lift the frown from Fingon’s gorgeous lips, Maedhros says, “In my defense, I had no alpha to restrain me.”

It does its job: Fingon grins and chuckles. It’s a better song than even Maglor could create. “You were always very close to an alpha yourself, my Nelyo. Is there anyone who can restrain you?”

Only one. Maedhros doesn’t answer, is sure Fingon must know. Instead, he runs his hand over Fingon’s side, tracing, _feeling_ , coming up to Fingon’s shoulder and down to his elbow, clutching his arm. Maedhros never thought this would come again. 

He asks, reverent and quiet, “How are you here?”

“I sued for pardon,” Fingon sighs, though Maedhros can’t imagine why—Fingon was always purely _good_. Brave, yes, but he’s guilty of nothing but loyalty. “With all the devastation that followed, there were more souls in Mandos’ halls than all the rest of Valinor, and those that never left in peace were given chances we did not deserve. We were allowed to walk amongst the rest, to find our peace. ...But mine lay East. My sentence was many lonely years, but I earned my redemption. I had my permission to come, to fetch the only one who could make me whole again.” There is no doubt who he could mean. He smiles at Maedhros so brightly, hands coming up to cup Maedhros’ face. Maedhros himself hasn’t earned this happiness, but he clutches fiercely to it and refuses to let go. 

But his mouth is still dry, and he says what they both must know: “I cannot return to Valinor.”

“Then I will stay here,” Fingon says, as easily as anything. The simple words warm Maedhros more than Fingon can know. “But you are permitted to return. ...As my omega, restrained from your own devices.” He lets a grin permeate his face, as though daring Maedhros to deny he needs it. Maedhros lets out a small, half-bitter laugh.

“I wish I had that excuse to have you ages ago.”

To Maedhros’ regret, that makes Fingon’s face fall, and he says more quietly, “I am sorry I took so long, my Maitimo. I cannot take those years back, but I can tell you that I had no other, wished for no other, and thought of you every day that passed.”

“I have never either,” Maedhros confides. “...I have not even had a heat, not since that first one that I shared with you, so long ago.”

Smiling sadly, Fingon quips, “I should have claimed you then.”

“We were too young, too separated by our fathers, and too concerned with propriety.”

Fingon snorts. “I care nothing for propriety.” Maedhros doesn’t either, not anymore, and though he’d love to return West and see his father with all his heart, that couldn’t keep him from this. Fingon uses his grip on Maedhros’ face to pull him in, and Maedhros follows forward, tilting and ducking slightly down as Fingon comes to meet him. 

The kiss is chaste for perhaps half a second, and then Maedhros is consumed with _want_ , he’s never wanted anyone so much, and his arms jump to draw Fingon tighter, crush them together, squeeze the air out of their lungs, his tongue thrusting in to trace everything he missed. Fingon meets him just as harshly, sucks on his tongue and grinds their faces together, their bodies together, fingers sliding back into the ragged ends of Maedhros’ too-short hair. When the kiss ends, another immediately begins, then another, a slew of wet, stifling pockets of bliss that Maedhros eagerly jumps between. All the pain of all the lonely years, the agony before that, even the horrors of Morgoth’s dungeons, were worth it for this, for Fingon back within his arms and all their walls sliced away.

Eventually, they part enough to breathe, Fingon’s forehead resting against Maedhros’ and arms still tight around one another. Fingon whispers, “You cannot know how much I yearned for that.”

“There are no prettier omegas in Valinor?” Maedhros teases, sure that Fingon could’ve had thousands of less damaged options.

Yet Fingon returns with total surety, “There are no prettier omegas in all the world. And I have always been for you, and you know that.”

He does. It’s an entirely mutual feeling. Maedhros lets his head fall onto Fingon’s shoulder and starts up another airless embrace. There’s no better feeling in the world. 

For a long moment, they stay that way, nothing else truly mattering, but finally, Fingon detangles them, his hands still resting around Maedhros’ wrists, thumbing his pulse and likely finding it racing. “I will stay here a few days,” he promises, “in your rooms, where I belong. Then we will decide where we shall go. Together, this time.”

Maedhros is so happy that he could almost cry, though he hasn’t done so since their last parting, one he was sure was final. Fingon must see it, because he lifts to kiss the corner of Maedhros’ eye, and Maedhros smiles instead. He’s nearly trembling, all with delight, and can feel the same joy filling Fingon’s being. Fingon takes hold of Maedhros’ good hand and leads him out of the study.


End file.
